


Hypothetically...

by storybycorey



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-26 11:39:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14401371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storybycorey/pseuds/storybycorey
Summary: He’s still circling the office, assaulting her with that cologne, that superior attitude, making her think about things like asses and hands and hands and asses andhishands andherass and—





	Hypothetically...

“It’s the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard, Mulder.”  Scully rolls her voice along with her eyes, just in case her annoyance isn’t obvious enough.  Her briefcase clunks as it lands on the floor, and she shakes out her overcoat before hanging it up.

“What? That extreme pleasure can manifest itself on a deeper level?  That there’s an alternate plane of existence to be reached via the portal of that pleasure?”  He tosses his trench in the general direction of his chair (misses) and leans his rear against the desk in that way he does sometimes, when he’s energized and antsy, revving up for a debate.  Well, he’s not going to get one.  This is clearly an open and shut case.

She sits in her seat a few feet away and crosses her arms.  Leans back in a very Scully-like show of irritation. “Honestly?  Alternate planes of existence? —and by the way, I find that to be a load of crap— But the thought that Ann Bennett could have found herself ‘existing in another reality’ via a slap on her bare behind by her boyfriend, while engaged in… ummm, well, you heard her story as clearly as I did…” And what a story it had been. She’s flustered just thinking about it.  “But anyway, _please_ ,” she scoffs.  They’ve had their share of unconventional conversations over the years, but alternate planes of pleasure?  Portals via rough and randy sex?  Someone please tell her they’re not having this discussion.

“What is it that makes you uncomfortable, Scully? Her suggestion that pleasure is limitless, unquantifiable? Or the methods by which she discovered the fact?”  His voice softens and continues before she can respond. “Look, I mean, if this case is beyond your comfort level…, I get it.  If you need to back off, I’m more than happy to…”

Her cheeks pinken, she can feel them, and it maddens her that he thinks she can’t handle this. She’s a grown woman, for goodness sakes, familiar with sex and its different varieties, familiar with men and the way they assume that women enjoy it.  

_That_. That’s what irritates her about this case.  How it’s all some glorious male fantasy, and women like Ann Bennett are just helping to fulfill it.

She pulls the file from her briefcase, reaches over and spills it across the desk.  Her arm brushes against his thigh, but she tries not to notice.  “I appreciate your concern,” she says shortly.  “I’m fine though. I just find the claims absurd, Mulder, that’s all.”  She turns away, something about this discussion a persistent pea beneath her pile of mattresses—a niggling annoyance that she can’t quite place.

He sighs, loudly and obnoxiously, and just the _tone_ of that sigh is enough to push her into territory she’d vowed not to enter.   Spinning back around, she says, “You do know that most women don’t enjoy that, don’t you?  I mean, you are aware of that fact, right?”  She sounds like a shrew, and she hates that, but let’s consider this her contribution to womankind for the day.

“Don’t enjoy what?” he asks, and the confused look on his face is almost enough to make her want to go easy on him.   _Almost_.  Not quite though.

She stands up, walks toward the filing cabinet, turns back around to face him.  “Spanking… all of that… nonsense…”  She waves her hand in a vague curly-queue to indicate the rest, whatever that may be.  

“You think so, huh?” he grins, obviously amused by her allegation.  “I think there are at least a few women out there who disagree…”  His cocky attitude both infuriates and intrigues her.  He’s such a… such a… well, such a _man_.  

“If you’re speaking of the women in your… movies..,” she chuckles, “Well, I hate to break it to you, but that’s called acting, Mulder, and not very good acting at that.” She thinks of the few adult films she’s seen and cringes.  The fake moaning and exaggerated writhing of bodies.  Does he really think that’s what women are like? And why is she suddenly so intent on proving otherwise?

“The neurochemical connection between pain and pleasure is a statistical fact, Scully.  Surely as a doctor, you know that…” He’s meandering around the office now, moving closer to her with each slow blink of his eyes.  “Pain can often be considered almost orgasmic to some.” She can smell him.  They’ve been together all morning, but this is the first she’s noticed his cologne, that _damn_ cologne.

“Of _course_ I’m aware of that.” Christ, does he think she’s stupid? Maybe she needs to bring it down a bit closer to his level.  “What I _meant_ was that women usually fake those reactions, for the men’s benefit.  There are fragile male egos to consider, you know… Big macho men who need to feel in control…”  

She remembers Jack, clumsily slapping her flesh, how foolish she’d made him feel when she’d laughed at him. She hadn’t even considered faking it, and she certainly hadn’t found it pleasurable. There’s no way she would ever get off on handing control over like that, allowing a man to feel so dominant.

At least she doesn’t think so.   No, don’t be silly, of course she wouldn’t.

There’s a nagging flutter between her legs that’s disagreeing rather irritatingly with her right now though.

“Hmmm,” he hums, squinting and tapping a finger to his lips as though he’s considering complex mathematical equations instead of just a stupid conversation about sexual proclivities. He’s still circling the office, assaulting her with that cologne, that superior attitude, making her think about things like asses and hands and hands and asses and _his_ hands and _her_ ass and—  

“So if a man were to spank you…,” he interrupts, looming larger and larger, finally stopping before her, “…hypothetically of course…”

“Well, of course.” This is alllll hypothetical.  She presses her hands back against the cold metal of the file cabinet, fingers suddenly clammy.

“…you wouldn’t react at all? Not anything?”

She forces out a laugh, hands pressing harder, slipping down the surface with a squeak.  “Other than perhaps smacking him back, I’m afraid not.” Her voice is weak; she doesn’t sound nearly as confident as she should.  She’s supposed to be making a point here. What was it again? Something about him spanking her? No, couldn’t be that, he’d never…  The flutter is insistent now; it’s becoming a goddamn _pulse_.  And by the way, when’d he get so close?

“Hmmm,” he responds, “Innnteresting.”  

She can tell there’s more there, more he’s not saying, and when he turns to walk away, she grabs his arm. “Why?” she demands. “Why is that so interesting?”  She should just let it be. Let him take his arrogance and his absurd cologne, let him believe his ridiculous male fantasy about women liking it rough, about women entering alternative planes of pleasure from a slap on the ass (she rolls her eyes again at the thought).  She should do all of that.  But she doesn’t.  

He spins on his heel and places his hands on the top of the filing cabinet, his face just inches from her own. She can’t breathe.  “It’s interesting…,” he whispers, “…because I don’t believe you.”

“Wha-!” she reacts with surprise, eyebrows arched and mouth drawn into an ‘o’.  He is so infuriating. How dare he not believe her! Implying she’d be into…, implying she’s _lying_!  Let it go, let it go…. “Well… I’ll… I’ll prove it then!” That was basically, exactly, the opposite of letting it go.  God forbid she let him win this argument though. There’s no way they’re taking this case, goddammit.

He backs away, chuckling nervously.  “No, I was just teasing.  You don’t need to…”  Funny how quickly he scurries away with his tail between his legs when asked to back up his claim.  Not quite so powerful and in charge now, are you, Mulder? Gonna let a little woman scare you away?  She’s never been one to back down. She requires quantifiable proof. She’s a scientist, a doctor, after all.  

“Cool it, Mulder.  I’m a big girl,” she scoffs, forcing out a laugh to hide the shudder that unexpectedly courses down her spine. “I’ve got a point to make here, to men in general, and since you’re the token man in the room, I nominate you.”  It surprises her honestly, how much she wants this, how important it’s suddenly become to prove him wrong.  To prove that even though he smells divine and looms over her like a tree and sometimes makes her throb in unmentionable, embarrassing places, he has no power over her, physically or otherwise.

At least that’s what she tells herself.  It’s all about proving him wrong.  Allll about making a point.  It has absolutely nothing to do with the way her breath is suddenly a bit labored, the way her heart is pounding in her chest.

“Really, Scully…”

She walks purposefully across the room, chin up, shoulders squared.  “Shut up, Mulder. Man up and defend your point.” She places her hands on the desk and bends over.  This is the most unprofessional thing she’s ever done.  She tries to ignore the butterflies in her tummy, the heat rising up her chest.  Looking back over her shoulder, she catches his eye, murmurs, “Okay, do it.”

He’s sweating, bless him, and licking his lips.  “You don’t have to do this.  You’ve got nothing to prove to me.”

“Dammit, Mulder, I told you, DO IT,” she demands.  

She smiles to herself as he rushes over, then turns her head, Ann Bennett’s file right there in front of her nose. Stupid, stupid case.  “Alternate planes of existence—unbelievable,” she mutters to herself, “Portals of plea—“

SMACK.

The air sucks through her teeth and her eyes slam shut.  “—sure,” she finishes shakily.  Her knees feel suddenly weak, but she braces them quickly.  A flush spreads so swiftly through her body, she feels faint.  That pulse? That itty-bitty pulse?  Well, it escalates immediately to an all-out pounding _throb_ , so demanding she worries she’s about to suddenly embarrass herself. She bites down on her lip to keep from whimpering.  

“So?” Mulder interrupts her inner turmoil.  “Was it all Ann Bennett claimed it to be?  Did ya pass through any pleasure portals?  Enter any alternate planes of existence?”  He’s chuckling, making his way around the desk, just seconds away from seeing her face.  

She straightens quickly, busies herself with re-adjusting her clothing, looking down so he won’t see her surely-pinkened cheeks.  “Yeah… umm… sorry to disappoint you, Mulder,” she manages, “…but uhh… no…”  Oh Christ.  Oh God.  “Those neurochemical pleasure-pain connections are entirely overrated, just as I predicted.”  Good, yes, that sounds good, sounds logical and rational and exactly what he’d expect of her. Yes, yes.  “So ummm, yeah, if you’ll excuse me for a moment, I just need to uh… yeah… I need to use the ladies room…”

Grabbing her purse, she rushes from the room, cursing Mulder, cursing Ann Bennett, and cursing her over-ripened body for so utterly betraying her.  But most of all, she curses the spot on her rear, the one precisely the size and shape of a certain somebody’s hand, that tingles for the whole goddamn rest of the day.


End file.
